


i've got you, brother

by nameonehero



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League Dark: Apokolips War
Genre: Angst, Dick Grayson Whump, Gen, Heavy Angst, Lazarus Pit Madness, Loss of Identity, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameonehero/pseuds/nameonehero
Summary: Damian uses the Lazarus Pit to bring his dead brother back to life. Dick Grayson gets lost somewhere along the way.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 15
Kudos: 150





	i've got you, brother

**Author's Note:**

> so, uh, i watched apokolips war and let it break my entire heart and then proceeded to break my heart some more by writing this. normally i'd say "enjoy" at this point but i'm gonna go with "sorry" in this case.

**» all my grief says the same thing:  
** _this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.  
this isn’t how it’s supposed to be._

**and the world laughs,**  
**holds my hope by the throat.**  
**says:** _but this is how it is_. **«**

– Fortesa Latifi

He wakes up blind and drowning, thick fiery liquid clogging his throat and nostrils, and the first thing he registers apart from purely instinctual panic is an ear-splittingly desperate wail – one of the kind he only ever heard from dying people who knew exactly what was happening to them. People who weren't granted a peaceful passing but were _suffering_ instead, in ways no living being should ever have to suffer. Something grips his arm, his shoulder, the backs of his knees. His body feels like a separate entity, impossible to control and even harder to assess although he knows he is being pulled somewhere, lifted up when liquid sloshes and splashes around him and he feels heavier all of a sudden; chokes and spits around the fire in his mouth.

The wailing cuts off abruptly.

His ears are ringing in its absence and he tries to find out where his hands are. Maybe if he claws at his head hard enough he can rip the nauseating noise right out of it, possibly bang his skull against a wall and remember how breathing works because his chest is burning all the way through to the mark of his bones and he can't find relief.

He is moving, still. _Being_ moved. Can feel the glide of … water? blood? on his skin as he gasps, and then gasps harder when the sound is all wet and frantic and _wrong_ for reasons he wishes he could figure out. Another sound pierces his conscience, a rough exhalation of breath, a grunt that could be a word but probably isn't. He is lowered to a cold, dry ground that makes his skin prickle, makes him thrash with limbs that might be his own but he's not sure, he can't be sure. Then a sharp voice says,

"-yson, _Grayson!"_

and he doesn't know what that _means_ but his entire world flips around, violently snaps into focus. One second his eyes are closed, only darkness and creeping panic surrounding him, and then they open, quick as a gunshot but still somehow incomplete, just halfway there, to see a young face that's all harsh lines, furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, brown skin tinged in a sickly green glow –

("Grayson," again, the word softer this time, almost a sigh, painful.)

 _It's the water,_ there's green water filling the edges of his vision that looks like poison and drips vicious colour everywhere and he wants out, away from it, away from the searing ache in his chest and behind his eyes, and the stranger leaning over him. Instinct takes over and with it comes muscle memory. He has a body, a rather strong one, and once upon a time he must have known exactly how to use it because the punch that connects with the face in front of him is precise and powerful, as is the way he twists out of the hands keeping a hold of him. He rolls over his side, tenses and jumps to his feet, knees still bent slightly. There are several hooded figures surrounding him, danger emanating from their postures and the way they've circled him like hounds would their prey, keeping him trapped between them and the bottomless pit he's convinced he drowned in.

It must be death itself clinging to his skin, shaped like a hundred dozen drops of liquid fire, there is no other explanation for how _wrong_ everything feels.

("He didn't make it," someone whispers, hushed, like it's a dirty sort of secret.)

Movement to his left makes his vision blur in a haze of green. Feeling a low, threatening sound claw its way up his throat, he bares his teeth to let it out. Rolls his shoulders, fingers clenching into tight fists. His palms tear under the pressure of his nails.

"Back off! Everyone back away this instant!"

It's the first voice again, the sharp young one, _Grayson?_ This time he sounds dangerous.

The hounds comply.

Their feet are soundless as they retreat several steps away from him and disappear into the shadows, out of the eerie green glow that reaches far beyond the water, and that, more than anything, makes him want to lash out and attack before they can, because they _will_. Only the deeply terrified or extremely deadly know how to move this silently and blend into their surroundings to make themselves easily overlooked and forgotten, and he is clearly confronted with the latter.

He snarls again, poised to jump forward and –

_Tear them apart, they'll rip you to pieces like prey if you don't, you're not prey, you're NOT, you have to …_

"Dick."

_… kill them while you have the chance, get out, you need to get out, out, OUT._

The fire in his chest flares up so badly he clutches at his bare skin like he can just reach through and crush whatever is pushing at his ribcage with his fingers. Close to groaning in pain, he twists the vulnerable sound into a furious growl in his mouth.

Someone steps in his direct line of sight then, close, _too close_ , looming over his hunched body.

(Furrowed brows. Blazing green eyes. A sword clutched tight in slender fingers, pointing … to the floor.)

"Dick, _Nightwing_ , you need to snap out of it!"

His ears a ringing again, his skin crawling all over and those _words_ , they shatter in the air, into shards tinged in green and it's all _wrong_ because he's supposed to … he's supposed to –

A _crack_ rips him out of his fumbling thoughts as an open palm slams against his cheek, _hard_ , with enough force to snap his head to the side. The boiling blood in his veins screams at him to lunge and attack and _kill_ but he cannot move, _he can't move_ , he's going to die, he's frozen in place with so much rage trapped underneath his skin his entire body should be bursting with it but his eyes catch those green ones, their gazes lock, and he freezes.

The man in front of him looks every inch a warrior and yet his voice wavers like a little boy's when he grits out, with all the petulant anger and disbelief of a disappointed child: "Do not _dare_ do this to me. I brought you back, Grayson. _I brought you back!"_

Back from what? Back from _what?_

His vision blurs again and this time it's because his throat feels tight and his head hurts _so much_ and all he wants to do is open his mouth and scream,

_Why do I know you?_

_Who are we?_

_~~What happened to me?~~ _

but all that comes out is a hoarse gasp. He wishes he could choke it back down instead of following it up with a _sob_ , would rather choke on his angry tears than have them mingle with the few remaining drops of water on his face.

Something deep within him loosens, shakes, and snaps.

 _Take his sword, claw his eyes out, get out get out get out of here_ -

Dimly, he is aware of tears streaming down his face and leaving trails of molten lava in their wake. The next sound coming out of his mouth is the horrible, agonized wail he heard when he woke up in the water, only this time it doubles as a battle cry as he finally pushes through his body's daze and lunges forward.

Teeth bared, he aims for the boy's throat and clutches at the shoulder plates of his armour for purchase, putting his whole weight into the attack. They crash to the ground in a heap of limbs but before he can do any real damage, a hand closes around his neck with enough momentum to be considered a punch and knocks the wind out of him. He's wheezing for breath and disoriented, manages to block a kick to his stomach but not the blunt hilt of the boy's sword that's aimed for his temple.

He cries out and sways to the side, black sparks blooming in his vision until they drown out the green, and as his opponent pushes him off to the ground, the shadows in the far walls start moving, closing in around him once again.

He is going to die, _he is going to die_ and he will take as many of them with him as he can because no matter who he might have once been, he refuses to believe it was someone who goes down without a fight, but his head swims with nausea and it's getting harder to force his muscles to comply.

They're coming closer, too close for comfort -

"Nobody touches him," the boy suddenly snarls, not a boy at all, a danger, a _threat_ , possibly the biggest one in the room, and he grits his teeth, bucks up violently against the weight straddling his abdomen although the movement sends new stabs of pain through his head. The other grunts but does not budge. Sharp knees are digging into his forearms to keep them pinned against the ground close to his sides, useless. He yelps in pain as his windpipe is crushed beneath the reinforced armour plates of the boy's left forearm, unmoving even as he's thrashing and kicking his legs in his attempts to break free but the hold is too strong and he can't breathe, he can't remember, he can't _think_ \- 

("I've got you, brother," the words a gruff exhale against his ear, too close, too quiet, too thick with emotions he cannot name.)

Shivers tremble down his spine.

Green eyes stare him down in an expression that should be victorious and is anything but, and there's a wet sort of glint in them that makes him squeeze his own eyes shut because he cannot stand to look at them.

"I've got you. I'm not leaving you."

His leg kicks into thin air one more time, a muscle spasm rather than a conscious effort to move at this point, before he slides into darkness.

Later, much later - when the walls of his cell are all he knows and all he has, and they keep him bound no matter how much he screams and wails and throws himself against the door because they know he'll just dig his nails and teeth into someone's throat again if he's granted even the slightest chance to do so - he thinks back to the look of regret in his captor's eyes, the way his voice wavered when he called him names that must have _meant_ something once, and wonders why he didn't just cut off his air a little longer and _killed him,_ because in those last few seconds before he lost consciousness, the man staring down at him hadn't struck him as cruel at all.

But now, when he growls and bares his teeth at anyone who opens the small hatch in the door of his cell, begging to be put down like the raging, rabid animal he is with every desperate lunge of his weakened body, he knows he was wrong.


End file.
